In Old Mexico…

“There is so much weariness and disappointment in travel that people have to open up — in railway trains, over a fire, on the decks of steamers, and in the palm courts of hotels on a rainy day. They have to pass the time somehow, and they can pass it only with themselves. Like the characters in Chekhov they have no reserves — you learn the most intimate secrets. You get an impression of a world peopled by eccentrics, of odd professions, almost incredible stupidities, and, to balance them, amazing endurances.”

Graham Greene, The Lawless Roads, 1939

The bus ride from Los Angeles to Tucson was uneventful.  A long stopover in Indio gave Curtis Stahl a chance to stretch his legs and walk around a neighborhood. This was early in the summer of 1974. Curtis had been on the loose for a few months after splitting up with his longtime girlfriend, Ellen Darrow.  They were living in Ashland, Oregon when they parted, only days after they celebrated their birthdays, which fell on the same date.  She was 29, he was 28.  When he left Ashland, Curtis thumbed his way up to Vancouver, BC where he looked up old friends.  His friends put him right to work in their underground silkscreen shop, printing posters for student protest rallies.  Silkscreening was a skillset Curtis learned in his teens and once again it was putting money in his pockets.  Six weeks of working and earning got him back on the road and headed towards Old Mexico.  

After a night in a musty Tucson hotel, Stahl made his way to the border town of Nogales.  His plan was to take the Ferrocarril night train to Mazatlan.  When he arrived at the Nogales train station, it was teeming with Mexican travelers and street vendors of all stripes.  Wending his way through the crowd, Curtis noticed a particular young woman on the platform.  She was sitting alone on a bench.  He approached her, asking, “Are you American?”

“I am,” she said.

“May I join you?” 

“Yes, of course…  Are you taking the night train?”

“Plan to,” said Curtis.  “You?”

“I’m on my way to Guadalajara,” she said.

“My name’s Curtis Stahl.”

“I’m Andrea… Andrea Becker.” 

“How do you do, Andrea Becker?” 

“I wondered if there’d be other Americans on the train,” said Andrea.

“Just us, so far,” said Curtis.

“Where are you going in Mexico?” she asked.

“Not sure,” said Curtis.  “I’ll get off at Mazatlan in the morning.  After that, I don’t know… just sort of wandering right now.”

“That sounds wonderful,” said Andrea.

“Oh,” said Curtis.  “I suppose it is,”  then singing a few notes, “…we’re merrily ♫ on our way to ♪ nowhere in particular♩.”  

Andrea chuckled.  “The singing wanderer,” she said. 

“That’ll be the title of my book,” said Curtis.

“You’re a writer?” said Andrea.

“I don’t know,” Curtis said, “I grew up admiring Ernest Hemingway.  Don’t know if I liked his books that much.  I preferred his short stories.  Mostly, it was the way he lived.  Y’know, all the traveling and adventures he had.  I wanted to grow up and be like him.  Then he blew his brains out.  So… so much for Hemingway.”

“But did you become a writer?” said Andrea.

“Well, I think I got the travel and adventures down,” he said.  “But translating that into good literature still eludes me.  I certainly write a lot and constantly, but so far none of it seems to rise to the level of my actual experiences.”

“That’s ironic,” said Andrea.

“It is.”  Curtis paused for a moment.  “What about you?  Where are you in this rugged journey we call life?”  Andrea smiled.

“I just earned my BA at Yale,” Andrea said.  “I thought I would reward myself with a trip to somewhere new.”

“I thought Yale was a men’s college,” said Curtis.

“It was,” said Andrea, “for two hundred and fifty years.  Not anymore.  I’m actually one of the first women graduates.”

“Huh,” said Curtis, “very interesting.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t know that,” said Andrea.

“I’m an LA boy,” said Curtis.  “born and bread. Y’know?… surfing, hot rods, rock ’n roll… and far from the ivy halls of New England.” 

A young Mexican boy approached the two strangers offering to sell lottery tickets.

“Wow,” said Curtis, “straight out of the movies.”

“What?” said Andrea.

“Treasure of Sierra Madre,” he replied.  “Y’know, the Bogart film.”

“No?” Andrea said.

“A Yale degree and you don’t know ‘The Treasure of the Sierra Madre?” said Curtis.

“No,” she replied.  “Should I?”

“Oh, I think so,” said Curtis.  “It’s a story about two down and out Americans in Mexico during the 1920s, and how they team up with an old prospector to go looking for gold in the wilds of the Sierra Madre Mountains.  And when they find the gold, it changes the nature of who they are.”

“A man’s story I suppose, “ said Andrea.

“Oh.  Well, I suppose so,” said Curtis.  “Never thought of it that way.”

“You see Curtis, I was involved in women’s studies at Yale… actually helped in developing course work.  And along those lines, there wasn’t much in the way of male-oriented literature and cinema.”

“Oh,” Curtis said.  “Why would you go from that into the land of… machismo?”

“What do you mean?” Andrea said.  

“Women’s studies,” Curtis said, “…then Mexico?” 

“I guess I haven’t thought of it that way,” Andrea said, “and besides, what is machismo?”

A loud bell rang.  The doors to the waiting train were opened and people began to line up for boarding.  Curtis and Andrea each held tickets for the single, first class Pullman car.  The other passenger cars  appeared to be from an earlier time.  

As Andrea boarded, Curtis walked over to a kiosk to purchase two bottles of drinking water and stuffed them in his backpack.  When he stepped into the Pullman car, he saw that most the seats were already taken by well dressed, middle class people.  

Walking through the car, Curtis noticed a uniformed Mexican Army officer with a young boy sitting on his lap.  As he passed by the officer the two men nodded to each other.  Then he came up to an empty seat next to the one Andrea was sitting in.

“May I sit here?” he asked.

“Can you sit somewhere else?” Andrea replied.

“Afraid not,” Curtis said, “this car is packed.”

“Well,” said Andrea, “I was hoping to lie down across two seats tonight, but I guess that’s not going to happen.”

“Sorry,” Curtis said.

“Not your fault,” said Andrea.

It had been a hot day in Nogales, and at seven o’clock in the evening it was still very warm out.  By contrast, the Pullman car was air-conditioned.  Curtis thought this was a lucky break and was looking forward to a cool, comfortable night.  

But when the train pulled out of the station, the air conditioning was switched off.  As the windows on the Pullman car were sealed, the comfortable, cool environment rapidly became hot and stuffy. 

“Darn,” said Curtis, turning to Andrea, “I was looking forward to cool ride tonight.  This could be rough.”

“Maybe it’s a malfunction,” said Andrea.  “Should we ask someone?”

“I don’t know,” said Curtis.  “I guess I could.”

Just then, a man in a blue uniform entered the Pullman car and walked up the aisle.  

“Well that’s good timing,” said Curtis.  Andrea gave him a curious look.

As the uniformed man approached, Curtis raised his hand and said, “Con permiso señor.  Tengo un pregunta.”

“Si señor, ” the uniformed man said as he stopped by Curtis’ seat.

“Por qué se apagó el aire acondicionado?” Curtis asked.

“Si señor, es un procedimiento estándar,” replied the man.

“Entonces, no hay aire acondicionado durante el viaje?  said Curtis.

“No señor.  No hay aire acondicionado durante el viaje,” said the man.

“Pero está caliente y cargado,” said Curtis.

“Lo siento, señor.  Es la regla con Ferrocarril del Pacifico,” said the man.

Clifford shrugged his shoulders and sighed, and the uniformed man continued on his way.

“You speak Spanish,” declared Andrea.  “I’m impressed.  What’d he say?”

“We’re going to have a warm night,” replied Curtis.  “Warm and stuffy.”

“And there’s no getting off now,” said Andrea.

The train continued south into the Sonoran Desert.  In the West the sun dipped below the horizon.  In the East, a full moon was rising.    As time went by, many passengers stood up in the aisle to take off their jackets, sweaters and other garments.  Five seats ahead of him, Curtis observed the Army officer as he took off his uniform coat, neatly folding it and placing the garment on an overhead rack.  Curtis and Andrea were sitting on the right side of the coach, the officer and his boy on the left side.  Curtis now realized that both the officer and the boy were sharing one seat.

“How did you come to learn Spanish?” Andrea asked.

“My mother’s from Argentina,” Curtis said, “I grew up with it.”

“What about your father?” asked Andrea.

“What about him?”

“Is he from Argentina too?”

“No.  He’s from Milwaukee.”

“And you grew up in Los Angeles?”

“It’s the American story,” said Curtis.  “All my grandparents were immigrants to America.  And they all came to Los Angeles in the 1920s, bringing their children with them.”

“Why Los Angeles, why not New York or Chicago?” asked Andrea.

“They were artists and entertainers, all of ‘em,” said Curtis.  “They came to LA to work in the Silent Films.  And you ask a lot of questions.”

“Actually, Curtis, my major at Yale was Journalism.”

“I thought it was Women’s Studies.”

“That was course work I focused on.  Yale doesn’t yet have an official Women’s Studies major.  Besides a Journalism degree is a good credential for the professional world.”

“That’s smart.  And you ask a lot of questions,” said Curtis.

“And I ask a lot of questions,” said Andrea.

“Fair enough,” said Curtis. 

Curtis and Andrea sat back in their chairs as the train rolled on in the night.  Curtis closed his eyes and thought about places he had seen over the previous few days.  He nodded off into a light sleep.  When he opened his eyes, the overhead lights in the Pullman car had been dimmed down to near darkness.  He looked over at Andrea, who was fast asleep.  

Feeling restless, Curtis decided to go exploring.  He remembered from the station in Nogales that the Pullman car was the last passenger car on the train.  He stood up and headed forward towards the door that connected to the next car.  He had to step around the Mexican Army Officer, who was making his son a comfortable sleeping arrangement on the seat they shared.  

When Curtis passed through the doorway into the next car, he passed into another Century.  “Oh yes!” he thought.  There was only the ambiance of moonlight, revealing dozens of campesinos, mostly asleep on the wooden bench seats.  Beside the seats, most of the windows were open and the cool night air keened Curtis’ sensibilities.  The amplified sounds of the tracks were almost musical.  Many of the men wore their sombreros on their heads as they slept. 

Curtis felt restored.  He wanted to whoop and holler at his discovery.  The rearmost bench seat was unoccupied.  Curtis sat down on it and relaxed.  “People ask me,”  he thought, “Why do you keep traveling?  Why don’t you just settle down and get a real job and have a real life?”

“Because of this!” he said out loud.  Then thinking to himself, “There is so much weariness and disappointment in any journey.  But then moments like this happen.  How could I ever relate moments like this to anyone back home… wherever back home is now?”  Curtis soon fell asleep.  

Andrea awoke in her chair in the Pullman car.  She realized she had become too warm to sleep, and removed the blue, linen vest she was wearing.  She saw that Curtis was gone and leaned over to look up the aisle.  No Curtis.  She observed the Mexican Army officer standing in the aisle, holding a magazine in his right hand as he fanned someone in the seat next to him.  Andrea couldn’t see who the officer was fanning.  She looked at her wrist watch.  12:36AM.  In the half-light of the coach Andrea sat quietly, listening to the sounds of the train… the hum of the rails with their clickety-click rhythms, the subtle ensemble of people snoring, the creaking and groaning of the old car itself.  Looking out the window she witnessed a splendid tableau of the passing desert landscape, now illuminated by the full moon.  She wondered where Curtis was.  “He’s a strange duck,” she thought, “but not such a bad sort.”

The train went into a steep left bank, pressing Andrea into the right side of her chair.

The banking action of the train woke Curtis up, as it did some of the campesinos in the timeworn coach.  An older man got up from his bench seat and made his way toward the rear of the car.  Curtis figured that the old guy was looking for the baño.  As the old man approached Curtis, the two men locked eyes.

“Hola abuelo,” Curtis softly said.  The old man smiled.

“Hola nieto,” the old man replied.  “Puedo sentame?”

“Si… seguro, aqui,”  Curtis said as he scooted over on the bench.

The old man sat down next to Curtis.  “Esta Americano?” he asked.

“Si, me llamo Curtiz de Los Angeles,” Curtis said with a flair. 

“I am Jose Leon.”  The old campesino replied in perfect English diction.   

“Entonces hablas inglés?”  Curtis asked.

“I spent thirty years working in the United States,” said Jose.  “I married and raise three daughters there.”

“Where in the United states,” asked Curtis.

“Albuquerque,” said Jose.  “Do you know it?”

“Been there once,” said Curtis.  “Where are your daughters now?”

“One is a lawyer in San Francisco,” said Jose, “and one is school teacher in Albuquerque.”

“And your third daughter?” 

“She died.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Curtis.

“As am I,” said Jose. 

The two men sat in silence.  Curtis wasn’t sure what to say next.  And then…

“Where are you going, Curtiz?” Jose said.

“To Mazatlan this morning.  Then maybe Guadalajara and Mexico City.  I’m just wandering, really.”

“Si señor,” said Jose.  “That is good.  You’re a young man now, and young men must wander.  Revel in this time of your life.  Go far and keep going, do all you can and see all there is.  Soon enough life will saddle you with life’s burdens and wandering will be the things of your memories.”  

Again, the two men sat in silence.  Then…

“Where are you going, Jose?”  

“I have a farm near Culiacan,” said Jose.  “My wife is there and our life is good.”

Again, silence.  Then…

“Jose, I’m going to return to my car now,” said Curtis.

“Bueno,” said Jose, “Vaya con Dios, Señor.”

“Y tu, Don Jose,” said Curtis.

When Curtis returned to the Pullman car, the first thing he noticed was how warm and stuffy it was.  Right away, he saw the Mexican officer standing in the aisle next to his sleeping son in the chair.  He was fanning the boy with a magazine.  The officer stood with a military bearing and appeared to be calm and relaxed as he kept a breeze wafting down on the sleeping child.  When Curtis passed the officer, the two men once again exchanged cordial nods.  Back in his seat, Curtis saw Andrea still sleeping in her seat.  He noticed the big round watch on her left wrist.  Cocking his head, he read the time.  1:07AM.  The train rolled on and Curtis drifted off into a slumber.  

Andrea slept through the night.  A light sleeper, Curtis awoke on a number of occasions.  Each time he woke up, he looked at Andrea’s watch…  2:24AM, 3:48AM, 4:39AM, and 5:22AM.  At those times when he was awake Curtis couldn’t help but notice the Mexican officer, standing in the aisle.  Throughout the night the officer remained calm and relaxed, while standing straight and fanning his son.  

Sometime after sunrise, the train pulled into the station at Culiacan, Mexico.  Andrea awoke.  Looking over at Curtis, she saw him sitting up with a distant stare in his eyes.

“Are you awake?” she asked.

“Yes, of course,” Curtis said.  “Been awake for a while.  Did you sleep well?”

“I guess,” Andrea said.  “I’m kind of stiff though.  And if you’ll excuse me I’ll go find the facilities.”

“They’re in the back,” Curtis said.  

Curtis stood up in the aisle to let Andrea out of her seat.  As he did so, he saw Jose Leon walking along the platform, carrying an old suitcase and wearing his weathered sombrero.  Curtis waved to Jose but Jose didn’t see him.  When he sat back down in his seat, a Mexican vendor passed him carrying a basket with fruits, rolls and drinks, declaring,

“Buenos dias amigos, tengo comidas y bebidas, todos frescos.”

The Mexican officer hailed the young vendor who went right to him.  The officer purchased a small carton of orange juice and a breakfast roll.  As the vendor moved on, the officer gently awoke his son.  Then he picked up the child and sat himself down with the boy on his lap.  He opened the orange juice carton, put a straw in it, handing it to the boy.  The officer held onto the breakfast roll as the boy took bites out of it.  Both father and son appeared quite content.

The train had left the station when Andrea returned to her seat.

“Oh fudge,” she said, “I was hoping to get a snack while we were stopped.”

Curtis stood up and reached into his backpack.  He removed two bottles of water and a small paper bag.  From the bag, he pulled out two breakfast rolls.

“Here,” he said, “don’t leave home without ‘em.”

“Well aren’t you the seasoned traveler,” said Andrea.  She took the water and the roll.

The two Americans enjoyed their repast.

When the train arrived in Mazatlan, Curtis turned to Andrea saying,  “Andrea, I hope your travels go well, and I wish you a safe journey.”

“Actually Curtis, I’m thinking I might stop over here in Mazatlan.”

“Oh?” said Curtis.

“I don’t think I have it in me to keep riding on this train all day, and all the way to Guadalajara.  I can catch another one tomorrow or the next day.  Besides, from what I’ve already seen, Mazatlan looks interesting.”